I want to finish with a poem that's not mine
that I love a great deal.
Two poems, in fact.
One of them is written by my son when he was about
three and a half years old, OK.
Poetry is fine, pretentious, and wonderful,
whatever, and to be struggled at,
but I like his version of writing a poem.
He said the poem aloud, and I wrote it down
on the typewriter.
It's called Ice Cream Bodi, Bodi and Papa on Motorcycles.
He was playing little motorcycles at the time.
We drive, going vroom, and crash.
Fast, I said.
We pressed on the brakes very hard, but still we go speeding.
That's how we make a poem, and we go speeding out again.
It's not as hard as I thought.